


This Time, Next Time, and Any Other Time

by AmbulanceRobots



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: All these people give me a case of the warm fuzzies, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Gen, Not Edited - We Will Die Like Heroes, This whole family I swear, Whoopsie this has chapters now My Bad, i wrote this in one sitting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-03-25 09:49:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13831647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmbulanceRobots/pseuds/AmbulanceRobots
Summary: Brigitte makes the move from noncombatant to armored squire. Her family, blood and not, are more supportive than she had ever imagined. Crazy, but supportive.I desperately needed FamFluff after Brigitte's reveal today, so I wrote this instead of studying.Whelp.XD





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My usual beta is not currently available to save me from my own mistakes, so ignore the typos. The Great Purge will happen Soon™. :3

In hindsight, she really should have known that Reinhardt was not the gentlest of teachers. Jovial, and enthusiastic, and patient—more or less—but he was not particularly gentle. She had learned this swiftly, when just ten seconds into her very first real sparring lesson she was trying to get her stunned diaphragm to work. He helped her back to her feet, smiling the whole time, but when he picked his padded training shield and baton back up, she guarded like her life depended on it.

It would, very soon. Maybe not this time, or next time, but some other time, it would _matter_.

She wasn’t sure what she had expected when she had first told him; with Reinhardt, it could have gone either way. No more sidelines for her, she was going to _fight_. He would have the backup he needed, and hopefully it would prolong his own sometimes-tenuous wellbeing. She had banked on either boisterous exuberance or firm denial—crazy godfather he may be, but she never once doubted that he took to protecting her with chilling seriousness—but what she got was decidedly neither. She had known that he had heard her, not just her words, but her meaning behind them, when he looked at her, _put down his beer_ , and reached around the small portable table to drag her into a warm, tight hug. He didn’t say anything at all for a moment, until he put a bit of space between them, still holding her firmly by the shoulders (and no matter how old she got or how much she grew, his hands never seemed to lose that quality of ‘oh my god giant bear paws’), smiling in that particular way when he was truly, completely earnest.

“When next we stop at a large city for supplies, I am going to have to procure us a good, honest set of sparring weapons.”

Well. That went better than she thought. She had expected… more emotion. This was Reinhardt, after all.

She had sat on it for a few days until that first real session with him. Her hand-to-hand technique was not entirely novice; like hell Papa would have allowed her to be entirely devoid of some manner of self defense, even if she had grown up within a quick phone call of having several armed, dangerous people fly across a continent to bail her out of trouble.

Or she could have just hidden behind the refrigerator.  
  
Yes, she knew all about the “secrets” her father had hidden in a variety of otherwise innocent kitchen appliances, and how mad it had made her mother. She pitied any robber fool enough to invade their house, for they would take away only the shame of being shot by a toaster, or a washing machine, or what have you.

She had sparred with Reinhardt before, sans any weapons, partially out of boredom, and partially because she did relish the idea of improving her own skills. He was somewhat gentle, then.

He was less so, now. Nor could she fool herself into thinking it had anything to do with these oddly heavy, if padded, shields and batons he had managed to procure from _somewhere_ (“Are these weighted, Reinhardt?” “Absolutely! When we are done, the real things will feel as feathers!” “I am designing state-of-the-art armaments, godfather, not large sacks of bricks. Holy shit.”), despite the fact that she might just injure herself if she dropped either on her foot. Forget kettle bells; just picking these up and swinging them around was a workout in and of itself. After a while, it took all her effort just to keep her shield up, despite Reinhardt’s friendly ribbing.

“Guard _up_ , Brigitte! That shield is doing you no good down around your knees! Unless you are guarding from your father, ha!”

She _did not_ laugh. No she didn’t.

Needless to say, her very first combat lesson was embarrassing. He made up for it with all the warm laughter that could be expected of him, as well as an upheld promise to be responsible for dinner. Which almost went farther towards soothing her injuries than the ice packs did; say what you wanted about Reinhardt’s other skills, but the old man could cook.

“I’m a little disappointed.”

He laughed from where he was cleaning the last of the dishes.

“Ach, it’s your first day! No one is perfect when you learn for the first time. Not even me!”

She rolled her eyes, before wincing and adjusting the ice pack on her hip.

“Not that. I mean… I had been expecting something more… _lively,_ when I proposed this to you. All I got was a ‘yeah, sure, okay’ and a hug.”  
  
“You do not like my hugs?”

“That is not what I said, and you know it.” And she stuck her tongue out at him as he shot her a cheeky grin over his shoulder. “Did it really not shock you?”

“Not at all. I know you. I know your family. There is enough fire in your blood that it would have needed an outlet sooner rather than later. I thought that outlet was the entire purpose of this trip, but clearly we were still not having enough excitement for you!” He laughed again, at his own joke. “If you had not gotten such spirit from Torbjörn, then you certainly got it from Ingrid.”

She smiled into her beer bottle, unbidden.

“Still, you were thinking of _something_ when I told you, I could see it on your face. You have always been terrible with secrets.” She leaned back in her chair, if only for a chance to stretch her sore legs. “What was it? Does it have anything to do with why you hit so _hard_ on my first day?”  
  
“Yes and no.” He was silent for a while, and despite her burning curiosity, she knew better than to push. No wonder he and Papa got along so well; when forced, they both dug in their heels and refused to be moved. Eventually, he dried his hands, grabbed another beer from the cooler, and came to join her back at the table. She would never not find amusement at watching this giant man make these perfectly normal folding chairs look like they were made for dolls as he sat in them.

“When you told me that you intended to follow me in, to be quite honest, I was terrified.” And Brigitte felt both her eyebrows meet her hairline. “What? Do not give me that look, it’s true! Am I not allowed to be terrified once in a while?”

“It’s the amount of things that _don’t_ terrify you that surprise me.”

“Bah! All those other things are easily handled!” And he made a show of popping the knuckles of one fist. If she rolled her eyes any more tonight, it was going to start to hurt. “Things like this, though, are not so easy. What you saw then, what you saw today, and what you will see going forward is that terror. And pride, Brigitte. What a combination of emotions. Have you every felt both at once? You are young, you have time.”

Seriously? She felt it at least once a week, watching her white-haired old godfather whup unprepared hooligans and ne’re-do-wells a fraction his age across Europe, because he held such upstanding personal justice in his massive heart that he could not keep it to himself. Sometimes she was torn between wanting to cheer and scrub a hand down her face. Yes, she had felt it.

“I am proud of your decision, because to feel otherwise would make me the world's biggest hypocrite. I am terrified of your decision, because I know exactly what you face. I have seen it. Or, at least, seen half of it.” She didn’t quite have it in her to laugh at that one. “But so have you. You’ve seen its effect on your father. You’ve seen its effects on your mother. You’ve seen it on me. You are so smart, Brigitte, you always have been. Even when you were a child, you were no fool.” He regarded her, with that same soft smile from a few days ago. “You are an adult, you can make your own choices, and I have no intention of standing in your way. You have given this serious thought, so I will give you my serious answer. If you want to fight, I will get you there. I will push, because you can handle it, and because you deserve all my effort. I do not maintain the illusion that I will be able to do this forever; I am old, and no one outruns time. Well, _almost_ no one. What I can do, before that time comes—and it is still a ways off, do not give me that wet look—is make sure that you have everything you need to some day be better than me. Just know that I am equal parts frightened for you, and so very, very proud of you.”

She could not put down her beer fast enough. Forget her soreness, forget her tiredness, she launched herself right out of her chair like her ass was on fire, and threw her arms around his neck. He returned the embrace heartily, and it did the exact opposite of what she hoped it would. Namely, relieve the burning in her chest and the stinging in her eyes.

“Now now, none of that. If your mother finds out I made you cry, she is going to peel my skin off.” Brigitte did manage to laugh into his shoulder, then. He gave her another moment, and then disentangled her from his neck, wiping at her cheeks with his huge thumbs.

“Come, let’s get you to sleep. We have a lot of driving tomorrow, because I think we should turn this van around and get you to a proper forge.”

 

* * *

 

Her mother came out to greet them when they pulled up in front of the house. All of Reinhardt’s recent efforts must have showed, never mind just from rough living for the last few months, because her mother’s short hug terminated in her feeling up her arms. Brigitte smiled at her sheepishly. Her sleeves _were_ getting a bit tight. Regardless, Ingrid seemed far more impressed than not, and swept her up again, as if Brigitte hadn’t eclipsed her in height and weight years ago. When she finally let go, she ushered Brigitte towards the house, but not before she saw her fix Reinhardt with a piercing look over her shoulder. Brigitte bit her lip; at least he had the sense to look slightly chagrined from all the way at the van. She laughed as her mother grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, her crisp, if accented German hovering somewhere between irritated exasperation and warm affection.

She only spoke German to him if she absolutely wanted to make sure that he heard every word she said.

“Reinhardt, I swear to God…”

“What, she was always built like that, I swear! Have you seen your husband? He is wider than he is tall, and only some of it is fat!”

“It is not the muscle I am speaking of!”

“She told you then, yes?”

“I am her mother. What do _you_ think?”

“I’m sorry Ingrid, but what was I supposed to tell her? No? She is half Torbjörn, she wasn’t going to listen to anything _I_ said, surely.”

“I am missing an arm, not an ear.” And she couldn’t help smiling as her father stomped his way out of the house, with the usual amount of fake acerbity reserved exclusively for Reinhardt. “Not that it matters. The deaf can hear you.”

“Ah, I was wondering where you were! Good to see the gnomes didn’t kidnap you back to their kingdom in the woods after all.”

“I made that armor that you love so much. Don’t tempt me to _un_ make it.”

“You could, but then your daughter would build it for me again, and better than you ever did!”

“Hrumph. And don’t you forget it.” And he gave Brigitte an appraising look-over, before giving her a rough, hearty pat on the arm. “Come on, then, let’s get you both inside and fed. With you, I’m pretty sure she hasn’t seen a proper vegetable since you two left the last time.”

“We’ve had potatoes!”

“Green vegetables, Reinhardt.”

“Bah, green vegetables are what food eats!”

Brigitte shot a knowing smile over her shoulder at her mother. Reinhardt may have been a mean cook, but she was certainly looking forward to veggies that were not either mostly starch and carbs or from a can.

Lunch, of course, was the usual pomp and circumstance that happened whenever Reinhardt was over. All her siblings would still try to fit across his broad shoulders, and to absolutely no one’s surprise he made a show of dragging them around the house. The younger ones screamed and laughed like they hadn’t done this many times before.

Entertaining as it was to watch, she was really here for what was post-lunch, even as it tied her stomach into knots. Not enough to prevent eating, but enough that both parents could tell something was up. Astute as they were, Ingrid wasted no time pawning all the siblings off on Reinhardt, which wholly distracted them all, especially as they grabbed at his hands and ushered him outside to see “that cool thing Papa found in the woods.” Torbjörn shot her an exasperated look, which she flatly returned, until he scratched at his beard and threw his hands up in surrender. Odd. Now _she_ wanted to see the cool thing from the woods. Ingrid smiled and patted his shoulder, before following the loud gaggle made of children and an old man outside. This did not stop him from calling after her.

“Reinhardt might flip, and rightfully so.”

“And I promise, I will handle it.” She smiled, and let the screen door close behind her.

He sighed, and muttered something into his beard. He rested his heavy metal arm on the kitchen table, and gave Brigitte a long look, which brought the knots back to her stomach with a _vengeance_. Grumpy as her father acted, it was very much that, an act, she was not surprised at all that he had picked up on her discomfort.

“Alright. Your mother has handily removed those in the house with a penchant to interrupt. So now you can tell me what is bothering you.” He stared at her from under one bushy eyebrow. “Second thoughts, I take it.”

“What? No. No second thoughts. Not any more, anyways.” She rubbed at that back of her neck out of habit, before digging her phone out of her pocket. She turned it over in her hands briefly, before thumbing on the screen and sliding it across the table to him.

“These are just scans, the actual blueprints are in the van.” And she watched her father scroll through them, slowly. It was nerve wracking, to say the least. When she was little, he heartily encouraged her any time she would join him in his workshop, and got her a set of her own tools as soon as she could tell him what each was, what they did, and what she could do with them. As she aged, she would get honest critique from him, as appropriate, but always with a sometimes barely-gruff push to do better. To be better. Still, it was a long, dark shadow to live under. She delivered on the Lindholm tenacity well enough, but she had never shared raw blueprints with him before. Not as an adult. Not as a peer. He had done thousands, hundreds of thousands, just like this. “I just… I don’t know. Before I begin fabricating, I want a second opinion…”

“Why?”

She blinked owlishly. What did he mean, ‘why?’

“Papa, you have done many things like this.”

“And? I have seen your work. What do you need me for? I can give you my opinion, but it will be just that; my _opinion_.”

She fiddled nervously with the end of her ponytail, and he signed as he turned the phone over on the table, face side down.

“Listen, Brigitte. I’m old. I’m set in my ways, and I don’t do change well. You know that. Your mother has had to live with it for over thirty years, bless her heart. This right here?” He gestured to her phone, and presumably the blueprints on it, “you don’t need me for this. You already _know_ how to do all of this. You’ve been doing it; I recognize all of these systems you’ve got right here, in some of the servos for the armor, because you’ve put those exact same ones in Reinhardt’s suit. These are even better, because you don’t have to jury rig it around what’s already there.” He looked back up at her, before clasping his flesh hand over one of hers. “My way of doing this is mine. Your way of doing this is yours. Engineers will be able to tell what you designed, simply upon inspection.” He smiled under his beard. “Soon, when we hear about Lindholm designs, they won’t be talking about me. They’ll be talking about you.” He passed her phone back to her. “If this is what you want to build, have at it. If it doesn’t work, make adjustments, try again. We’re engineers, that’s what we do.”

For the second time in not very long, Brigitte found herself almost launching over a table for a hug. Her father laughed, and squeezed her tightly.

At least she didn’t cry this time.

“Thanks, Papa. I needed that.”

“No, you didn’t.” He grinned, and gave her a heavy clap on the arm. “Now, there are three things before I let to run off again with your crazy godfather, righting wrongs with valor and glory, or whatever he’s told you.”

She grinned, and threw herself back into her chair.

“I promise to eat more vegetables.”

“Not that, but sure, we can add that in, too.” He gestured back to her phone. “First, since you want my opinion, I think you can do better with the energy source of that thing. Try trimming it down a bit, that one’s a bit of a monster.”

“Yeah, I could see that. You have any ideas?”

“Lots, but I wanna see what you come up with, first. To that end, you are gonna need more space than my old shop here can afford you.”

She gave him a wary look. Wary, and excited.

“I have a feeling you have ideas for this, too.”

“I do. I just got back in town a couple weeks ago. Spent a little time with some old friends, but part of what I got out of it was the knowledge that there is a nice, large, semi-used workshop currently operational at Watchpoint: Gibraltar. Nice place, warm, and right now there aren’t enough people to be a bother. It has room for a whole team of engineers to not get into each other’s way.”

Brigitte opened her mouth to respond, but all she got out was an airy squeak. A watchpoint engineering bay? Her father was offering her a permanent spot at one of his old Overwatch forges? Could he _do_ that? Did she care?

The answer, of course, was no, because that sounded awesome! Her father had never gushed about much at all that wasn’t his family, but the facilities provided to him on Overwatch’s dime was one of the few.

“Heh, yeah, that’s what I thought. I figured I might as well, since I know Reinhardt’s been itching to get back as soon as possible anyways, nostalgic old fool that he is.” He sighed, suddenly more subdued, and it brought her own mood immediately right back down to earth with it. “Which brings us to number three.”

Torbjörn squeezed her shoulder, hard.

“Take care of that old idiot for me, please. That mutant son of a drunk giant and a bear will charge headlong into danger regardless of his own wellbeing, as you already know. I’ll be down to visit as often as I can, but when I’m not there…” The squeeze got tighter, and he may have cleared his throat somewhere under his beard. “Watch out for him, yeah? I don’t have any blood brothers, so he’s as close as I ever got. I promised myself I would force him to live long enough to come and cry at one of you all’s weddings.”

She snickered, put her hand over his, and squeezed back.

“Of course, Papa. I would not ever deny you both the opportunity to cry at a wedding together.”

“Bah! You misheard. Him, not me.”

Her father had cried at every recital that she or her siblings had ever put on, ever. Momma said that he had wept when she was born, and for every one of his children born thereafter. Her grin got wider, and she patted his wrist.

“Whatever you say.”

“Hmph.” He strode across the kitchen headed for the hallway towards the back door, but stopped in the threshold, brandishing an almost-threatening finger at her. “And don’t you dare tell him that I said any of that.”

“I’m gonna tell him.”

“Brigitte!” 

“I find it cute when you two argue. Like two old dogs with no teeth left.”

“You got that from him, didn’t you? I’ll show him who doesn’t have any teeth left.”

“Papa, stop.”

“ _Reinhardt_ , you poor excuse for a godfather, bring your sorry ass over here!”

“Papa, no!”

But he was already gone out the door. Sometimes she wondered how he managed to move so quickly. There was some delighted shrieking from the yard outside, and a roar to echo Torbjörn’s.

“You want a go, angry dwarf? Then come! The Lion will humor your _tiny_ efforts! Ha!”

She buried her head in her hands, grinning. There was naught to be done but to head outside, and see if she could mitigate the damage in any way.

This time, next time, and any other time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brigitte and Torbjörn are both hard to write convincingly. Reinhardt, giant muscly cinnamon roll that he is, just writes himself. XD But that's okay, I needed to do more work with different characters anyways.
> 
> <.<
> 
> >.>
> 
> *sets traps for typo gremlins*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her father doesn't always heart-to-heart well. Except with certain old friends. And beer.
> 
> Also, the family cat is a floofy snitch.

It had been a while since she had snuck down the stairs of her own house.

Usually she wouldn’t have bothered; if she happened to stumble out of bed at some unholy hour and shuffle her way down stairs for a quick kitchen raid, she was entitled to do so. And she was doing exactly that now, stirred from sleep by some instinct that told her she was not in the van, and hence, if she was going to be awake, then she was definitely making off with whatever leftover pie was still in the refrigerator.

Her sleepy stumble down the hallway was abruptly terminated when she saw light filtering up the stairs leading down into the kitchen. It was two-something in the morning (she had been far too foggy-brained to read past the first digit on her clock); nobody in her house had a real penchant for staying up that late. Not anymore, in any case. Her father’s nights of working in his shop until the rest of them awoke for breakfast were behind him.

The voices rolling softly up from the kitchen told her otherwise.

Two voices for sure, even though when her father and Reinhardt “whispered” to each other both sets of husky rumbles tended to blend together. Every so often there was a wet scraping sound, glass on wood, which implied that the two of them were sharing a drink, _again_ , even at asscrack o’clock in the morning (Brigitte enjoyed a good beer, but she had a normal person’s limits, not whatever errant gene enabled these two to pepper their day with alcohol and remain entirely sober). While she couldn’t really read the mood in the room, especially from the top of the stairs, the fact that Reinhardt was keeping his voice respectively low meant the topic was at least somewhat serious.

She was almost too tired for this, but a part of her that had drifted away as she had grown bubbled back up out of her soul.

Ninja Brigitte was gonna sneak down these stairs like a damned boss.

As a child, when she would shuffle downstairs looking for an adult for any number of reasons, she sometimes found one or both parents keeping Reinhardt company when he visited. The game eventually became her attempts at getting as far into the kitchen as possible before her parents noticed and ushered her back to bed. At least once, they had allowed her to get all the way under the kitchen table, crawling “stealthily” on her stomach, before a massive pair of hands plunged down under a chair, grabbing her around her waist, and hauling her out and high into the air. 

“Torbjörn, look! I have captured a _spy!_ Quick, open the door so that I may throw her out into the cold where she belongs!”

She had screamed and laughed as Reinhardt had sprinted for the front door, going so far as to open it and wade out into the snow with her slung over his shoulder, making a whole show of pretending to toss her into the first deep snowdrift he could find. She remembered her father groaning from the doorway.

“Reinhardt, this is why she never stays in bed whenever you visit.”

“You mean you have this _spy_ living in your _house!?_ ”

“Reinhardt…”

“You let her _sleep here!?_ ”

“ _Reinhardt_ , if she is not back in bed and asleep in fifteen minutes, _you_ are never coming here ever again.”

It took almost forty-five minutes, given how Reinhardt told bedtime stories, and it didn’t matter in the least. He never stopped visiting.

Brigitte grinned as she leaned against the wall, hoping a diversion of her weight would make the stairs creak less. Good times. This now was more about her blatant eavesdropping and less about her attempts at pulling one over on a group of highly trained adults, but it felt nostalgic just the same.

She made it to the bottom of the stairs without being too obvious, considering that the cadence of the discussion had not abated in the least. Sure enough, just her father and her godfather, chatting it up.

Which, in their case, was a long stream of insults used to cover the thinly-veiled affection. This was both that, and _not quite_ that.

“I am surprised you are not trying to talk me out of it!”

“ _I_ am the blunt old man who has told you my opinion of your relationship to Overwatch many times, at length, and loudly. _You_ are the daft old bastard who refused to listen then, and will most likely not listen now.”

“You know me so well!”

“I sure hope so. You’ve been almost epoxied to my side for the better part of forty years.”

“And you’ve come out better for it.”

A grumbling sigh from her father.

“This is my house, I will make you sleep outside in the van. By yourself.”

“You are welcome to try, dwarf.”

“And I can, _beast_. All you need is a kick to your gimp knee and a blow to your bad hip…” And Brigitte had to slap a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

“Ha! Normally, you’d be right! But I’ve been doing conditioning with Brigitte, and it’s been as good for me as it has been for her!”

Well, that was nice to hear. She could easily see the progress in herself, but other than some bruises and sweating, she never seemed to see any change in Reinhardt at all. Of course, he’d been fighting for longer than she had been alive, so he was long since used to what was new to her. 

She could hear her father puttering around in the kitchen, but it stopped for a good few moments. She could hear what sounded distinctly like his metal arm against the table.

“How’s she doing?”

Oooh, here it was. If there was ever going to be any juicy conversation between them, it would be right now.

“In which way?” And Reinhardt was quiet for a moment as he took another hard swig of his beer. “Physically? Her progress has been swift. I am not surprised, considering who raised her.” An airy chuff from her father. “We are refining her technique, but it is _her_ technique. A good mix of her influences; I see a lot of you, when we clash, just taller and better looking.”

She heard Torbjörn’s amused snort.

“That would be Ingrid, in both regards.”

“She keeps Ingrid’s level-headedness under pressure, too.” Presumably more beer here. “I see bits of me in there, but that’s not surprising, considering. And every once in a while, she pulls some move that makes me think she took more away from her limited exposure to Jack and Gabriel than either of us realize.”

Jack and Gabriel. She didn’t have as much contact with the two of them as often as she had wanted, as a child. She’d only ever seen Jack off-base twice in her life, and Gabriel _once._ Like, she knew they left, but neither were in the habit of being particularly social when they did. She’d see them when she visited, sometimes. They had always been busy men. They went out of their way for her when she was _really_ young. She remembered Jack spiriting her out of her father’s workshop once when one of his teammates brought in something real dangerous to take apart; he let her make a knight’s fort out of the underside of his desk. She remembered hiding under there when he had brief visitors, hands over her mouth and nose to not make any sound. In hindsight, she was pretty sure everyone knew she was there, playing in her frilly flower dress around his ankles like nothing was amiss.

Gabriel had a scary face, and a scary voice, but he sure knew how to sew. On one occasion she had torn her dress, playing with her father’s _super shiny_ Overwatch-issued tools. Jack, again, had scooped her up, but this time walked down a hallway, opened a dark office door, and deposited her directly into Gabriel’s lap. She’d been _terrified_ ; Gabriel growled something at Jack that was most definitely the least friendly-sounding Spanish she had ever heard, and had a voice like a v8 engine in a tractor, but once the door was closed and Jack was gone, he promptly scooted her off of him, grabbed something from a desk drawer, and ushered her back out into the hallway. Turns out Gabriel could bake, too, and she got to eat his cookies as he mended the hem of her dress out in the courtyard. Even better than the cookies, he sewed little cats into the stitching for her. It had taken a good day or so before her mother was able to get her to take that dress off for washing.

Her visits with them got fewer and farther between as she grew, but they were good, if somewhat distant, uncles. She missed them.

“Mm.” A metallic sound, probably her father drumming his prosthetic fingers against the table. “And the rest?”

“Mentally? She is committed, wholeheartedly and without hesitation. I believe she does have a little anxiety, and rightfully so.”

Another amused snort.

“Now, she got _that_ from me. The way you wax about heroics, it’s a miracle she has any hesitation at all.”

“Do you think that little of me? I did not sugar coat it for her. She is an adult; if this is what she wants to do, then I will teach her. The fun parts. The not so fun parts.”

“The terrifying parts?”

“That’s where I _started_.”

Silence, for a little while. Reinhardt may have left out most of the gory details, but he had made it abundantly clear that she was on the path of seeing things, doing things, that she could not unsee or undo. She was going to have to cling to her conviction, her beliefs, and her morality as if letting go of any of those would lead to her death. She had not had those tested, yet, but she hoped she had as firm a grasp on those parts of herself as Reinhardt did. As her father did.

“I’m proud of her, you know.” And Brigitte had to swallow around a lump in her throat. She had been doing more of that in the last week than she usually did in a month.

“I know, old friend. That’s what I told her.”

“I’m _scared_ for her, too.”

“ _That is what I said!”_

And there was a glass on glass sound that heavily implied they had clicked their beverages together, in some manner of semisomber brotherly understanding.

“To be perfectly honest, Reinhardt, I’m glad she’s going with you. I’m still a touch pissed that you’ve rubbed off on her to begin with, but I’d figure she’d eventually go afield to do _something_. I’m relieved, at the very least, that she’s going with her godfather.”

Another soft chuckle from Reinhardt.

“You know I’ll protect her.”

“I know. This was originally going to be where I took you aside over a couple beers and told you to watch out for my baby girl and keep her safe, but you’ve been doing that for years. You’re an old pro. And at this point, I know you’re stubborn enough to keep at it even if she told you not to. Instead, I am going to ask that she be allowed to leech off of your boundless enthusiasm for a little while longer.”

“She is not leeching. I have plenty to spare!”

“I’m well aware. I cannot speak of anyone else, but you kept me sane in Overwatch. Never mind the arm, it was the other injuries that didn’t heal as easily. You know the ones.”

“Yes, I do.”

There was another short pause as Torbjörn thickly cleared his voice.

“You want to do me a favor? Be that cushion for her. Her soft place to fall. She’ll eventually run up against something that hurts. I know I did. I know you did. Just… please.”

“Aye, I get it, old friend.”

“Good. Thanks for humoring an old sap.”

“Any time.” One of the kitchen chairs creaked, just before Reinhardt’s chuckle rumbled up from the kitchen. “And just to show my support, I have a bucket ready in the van to catch all your tears when one of yours finally gets married!”

There was quite a bit of angry sputtering.

“Now, wait just a damned minute!”

“You’re right. I might need to get two buckets.”

“Yes! For yourself!”

“Don’t worry about me. I am tall enough that I don’t need to stand on anything to see clearly.”

“I take back every nice thing I just said about you.”

“Nope. No take backs.”

There was the scraping of chair legs against the floor, and the cadence of feet that told Brigitte that her father had returned to moving about the kitchen.

“You are too old to be sayin’ shit like that. You are gonna get along great with all these young upstarts they’ve got in the base, now.”

“Oh, fresh blood?”

“Aye, a good few are around her age. And most of our elder youngin’s aren’t so young any more.” There was an airy huff that Brigitte recognized as her father being both exasperated and amused. “The Trio of Terror are back.”

“Really? All of them?”

“Yeah. Miss Oxton is still a pixy, not even thirty yet and still cannot hold still to save her life. McCree has fleshed out a bit. It’s hard to believe he’s almost forty.”

“Ha! Then he’s almost to the age when we can stop calling him a kid!” Another beer-pause. “I’m almost afraid to ask about the last one.”

“Don’t be. I don’t know the details of what he’s been up to since he left Blackwatch, but Genji has mellowed out a great deal. It’s almost hard to recognize his character at all. He’s turned into quite the respectable young man, all things considered. Been keeping the company of the Shambali Omnics, with all that it brings, but I think it has done a surprising amount of good for his soul.”

“That one… there was nothing we could do to fix the wounds that mattered. We tried, best he would let us, but I’m glad he was able to make his own way. We all have our own opinions on Omnics, but is sounds like they did him a world of good, and we can be thankful for that.” And Brigitte tried not to jump as Reinhardt slammed both his palms on the table. “Ach, you make me even more eager to get back, now!”

“I figured as much. I’m still gathering some tools for Brigitte to take with her, ones that are too big to cart around in the van all the time, but they’ll be of better use down there than up here. I’ll ship the rest down once she’s settled.”

From her hiding place on the stairs, Brigitte wrapped her arms around herself, in lieu of revealing her nosiness and throwing her arms around her family at the table. These old saps were just the best. She knew it had been almost suspiciously easy to convince her father that this was what she wanted to do. He may have not ever wanted to reveal such to her, but of course he would pour his soul out to Reinhardt, and vice versa. They worried because they cared, deeply and completely. She knew, they had never left her with any doubt, but it was…emotional, to hear it.

She had come down here for pie, but she felt it was more prudent to leave it. Best not interrupt the heart to heart moment that her father rarely indulged in. If she was up early enough, the pie would still be there.

There was a muffled thump from the direction of the table, followed by Reinhardt’s curious, “were we too loud for you, kitten? I’m sorry, I promise I will stop banging on the table.” And from around the corner, looking up the stairs, was Aike. No longer a kitten, now a massive, nine kilogram tabby monster, but he still behaved like one.

He was also a loud, talkative, nasty snitch of a cat. 

“Meow!”

Oh, this was the last thing she wanted. She tried to shush him, quietly. It went about as well as expected.

“Meow!”

“Aike, stop!” 

“Meow!”

“Aike, shh!”

“Meow!”

“Go! Go, Aike!” 

He did the exact opposite of going, and began to pace at the bottom of the stairs, tail raised and back arched, clearly looking for attention. Or food. Or both.

“Meow!”

She could hear movement at the table, as a chair was moved, followed by the heavy footsteps of the only person in this house large enough to make them.

“What is bothering you, kitten? Is there something on the stairs? Can Uncle Reinhardt get it for you?” Because while most of their family was long since immune to the whiny, plaintive cries of a cat who was in no real distress at all, Reinhardt was suckered every time. Brigitte would bet that pie she wasn’t eating right now that the cute little furry devil _knew_ it, too.

And there was no way to silently scramble back up the stairs before Reinhardt’s long strides brought him around the corner.

They stared at each other for a moment, and Brigitte knew he was not fooled in the slightest; a strange combination of looks flickered across his face, brought on by the knowledge that she had overheard at least some portion of the conversation in the kitchen. It lasted only the briefest of seconds, before being replaced with his usual wide grin. And it was far too late at night for her to dodge the massive hands that reached for her shoulders, dragging her out into the light of the kitchen. Aike fled for the chair that Reinhardt had just vacated. Clever animal.

“Torbjörn, look! I have captured a _spy_!”

And Brigitte gave her father a sheepish look and he buried his head in both his hands.

Like nothing in this house had ever changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a one-shot, but apparently I'm shit at that, so this will have three chapters. Then I can get back to writing other Overwatch nonsense. XD
> 
> I have no idea if the Lindholm family cat has a canon name, so he's Aike until further notice. Me may show up, now and again.
> 
> And we all know that McCree, Genji, and Lena made right little shits of themselves when they were all together. XD


End file.
